Solo The First Frost

[Alses]

Timestamp: 67th Day of Autumn, 512 A.V. At times, Alses was very thankful indeed that Lhavit didn't operate on what might be called a conventional day and night cycle, rather preferring at twenty-four bell clock with blocks of work interspersed with blocks of rest. It meant that, no matter the time, Lhavit was never entirely asleep, and that her own dawn activities attracted no more attention than had they been conducted at a rather more civilised time of the morning. Even the students of the Towers Respite, a group that elsewhere was generally famed for its late rising, didn't bat an eyelid at a resolute Ethaefal marching out into the city at the crack of dawn, nor at the cacophony of thumps, crashes and inventive swearwords that generally accompanied her gardening efforts whenever she undertook them. Alses yawned and stretched, arching her back up off the bed as she came around from vague, half-formed dreaming and into full operating wakefulness, roused by that infallible internal clock that screamed 'DAWN!' and heralded the Change from mortal Konti to glorious celestial Ethaefal, the shimmering wave of golden lights that swept over her insensate form and restored her heavenly form for another twelve bells or so. Less now, of course, as Syna's influence over the world waned and Leth's waxed, causing shorter days and longer nights, which meant that she started later and accomplished less than she had during the balmy summer season. The thought brought a still-sleepy scowl to her perfect features, sending momentary creases dancing across fire-opal skin, before her face smoothed once more into passivity. It was a natural rhythm, ordained by Tanroa herself, if the legends were to be believed, and one Ethaefal's dislike of it wouldn't change the minds of the greatest gods in the heavens. Never mind, never mind. Moving on autopilot, Alses padded across the warm skyglass floor – grateful as ever for that gentle heat, remembering with a wince the chill stone floors of her master's tower in Zeltiva – to the washbasin, leaving her bed a tangled mess of sheets and blankets, the number of which had steadily been growing as the temperatures dropped. The small mirror over the stone bowl showed perfection, as usual – Alses had never seen the need or even experienced the desire to cover up blemishes with various compounds, since she had none, and in any case even the most sparkling of makeup powders and shadows she'd been able to find simply paled into dullness next to the flamboyant opalescent shimmer of her skin. Absently, she splashed water – hissing at the chill as it struck her bed-warmed flesh – on her face and gills, following it quickly with the harsh orange-scented soap the Respite provided before rinsing off and groping for the towel. Her ablutions were brief – she was going to spend the day in the garden, after all, getting mucky and sweaty and all-around hot and bothered, so it really would have been a total waste to wash and soak and perfume herself in the Respite's baths only to plunge straight into a pile of manure. That wasn't what she was planning on doing, of course, but the analogy served well enough. Plus, of course, Ethaefal grace aside and taking into account perfidious chance, it could happen despite her best efforts to the contrary. A The Respite gardens were a positive winter wonderland, every blade of grass, every leaf and branch edged in sparkling white, fern patterns uncoiling across frozen foliage, every spar and frond of ice shimmering in the early-morning sunlight. The scallop-raked pebbles of the pathways gleamed, too, with their own winter finery, and her breath billowed out in hot clouds of dragonsbreath that rose up to the powder-blue sky. Her footsteps crunched on the first frost as she made her way resolutely towards the little pavilion in one corner of the gardens, an oasis free of frost in the lacy fantasy that the grounds had become, thanks to the gentle warmth of the skyglass that glowed gently, serenely, in the lemon-yellow rays of a fine Lhavitian dawn. Inside was warm and light, as ever, and everything was meticulously organized according to her own system and, thanks to the state she'd found it in when she first started, every tool was carefully labelled and the recipe for the weedkiller carefully noted down and pinned over the bottles of the stuff. Alses' fingers danced over the racks of wooden handles, plucking out a plethora of gardening implements and loading them into the crook of her arm – forks, trowels, rakes and much else besides; sturdy wooden canes and a small bale of Okomo fleece securely tied up with rope and a sloshing pot of noxious weedkiller, to name but a few. Thusly burdened, she clattered out onto the paths, trusting to her own surefootedness as an aegis against the frost-slippery pebbles as she made her way towards the Respite's sheltered and hidden vegetable garden. Today was, as per Martin the gardener's instructions, the time to really give the place a damn good forking-over, assault any perfidious dandelions and any vegetables that hadn't manged to measure up to the required standard. A thought struck her, and she smiled – it would probably be an excellent idea to give things a jolly good dousing with that weedkiller while she was at it. The stuff was certainly toxic enough to ensure that no invading weed would be able to survive the winter. Steamy smoke was rising in great plumes from the chimneys of the kitchens as the staff there prepared for the day, putting the finishing touches to the breakfasts and already making inroads on luncheon. More columns of white vapour, matched with spires of black smoke, rose from the drying rooms, where the rich autumnal harvest of herbs and spices was being slowly dessicated, deprived of moisture by the furnace-like dry heat, ready to provide seasoning for all manner of hearty stews and casseroles come winter – or at least, that's what Cook had said. Alses was supremely indifferent to the culinary importance of all of this activity, however; her focus was, as ever, on the plants – or, rather, now on the beds which had held the annuals. Only a few forlorn wisps of green stood out against the silver-edged brown of the frosty ground – remnant leaves and the occasionally defiantly-hardy weed, the jaggedy leaves of dandelions infuriatingly shining in the light. Hands on hips, she surveyed her chilly dominion, breath steaming in the wintry air. “Right.” A grin, exposing white, almost fanged teeth. “To battle, then!” And with that, she jammed the heavy gardening fork into the rich earth of one of the vegetable beds, twisting it with Ethaefal strength – and a grunt of effort - until the unyielding steel tines cut through the hard ground and broke it up. The fork rose and fell with energetic regularity, stabbing again and again into the soil until its back was broken and every scrap of the shimmering silvery frost was completely gone, a shattered mass of earthy lumps replacing it.

[Alses]

Had she been an earth reimancer, then doubtless the job would have been far easier; a simple matter of rearranging the fundamental element of Mizahar itself. There was something awfully satisfying about really laying into the frozen earth, however, something deliciously physical about the fork handle singing with the tension of every strike and sending numbing vibrations all up her arm. Clods of soil flew as she broke the back of the hard ground, digging deep into the soil and turning it, fracturing the frosty layers and letting the rich smell of the earth rise up in waves, heavy and pregnant with the possibilities of life. Things crawled away from the light and her stabbing tines – she didn't look too closely, the ropy wormy creatures looked uncomfortably like intestines to her eyes, and that made her stomach roil in memory of the last time she'd seen such things. Best to find a distraction, a distraction...she grabbed the weedkiller pot with eager hands, narrowly avoiding slopping the caustic stuff all over her hands, giving the pathetic few remnants of dandelion a jolly good dousing, gazing with satisfaction at the pearly drops of milky liquid. Through an aurist's lens, there was a pitched battle already in progress as the weedkiller seeped in through pores and fork-inflicted wounds, thus infiltrating every single aspect of the weeds, harsh reds and oranges fighting the undisciplined tangle of the dandelions, blades of dangerous light slicing through the unrestrained jungle, causing the gordian knot of emerald filaments to shrivel, then to wither, and finally to perish. “Die, you dreadful things,” Alses hissed, taking an inordinate delight in their imminent ending. “Stealing light and water from things that deserve it.” Ramming the fork tine-deep in the now thoroughly-broken earth, she leaned on it and laughed quietly at her own absurdity, relishing the clear, crisp day, the warmth of her own body from her exertions, the clouds of dragonsbreath which rolled forth with every breath from her lungs and, as ever, the bright rays of Syna's glory beating at her back. The golden light called out to the very soul and centre of her, even as she drank in its boundless energy, a siren song to come and worship that was so very, very seductive. Today, though...today was a day for more menial concerns than the deep spirituality of the heavens – Alses didn't have time to go off on one, contemplating the unending glow of the sun and the endless infinity of the skies above. Today was a day for readying the garden – and for tackling the pond, worse luck. Alses winced at the thought – that would be the last thing she did. She shook her head at her own folly – she had several more bells of work, at the least, in digging over all the empty beds before she could even think about the next job. Eyeing the trees up for a pruning and sizing them for glue bands was just a waste of time. Then again, she had plenty of that, at least. Still resting on the roughened wood of the fork handle – it'd need a jolly good winter coating of linseed oil if it was to be usable again in the spring, surely – she surveyed this part of her domain with a critical eye. Unbroken vegetable beds stretched off towards the boundary wall in the distance, slightly hazy with morning mist still, and glittering with pristine frost. A double row of fruit trees hemmed in the garden, too, their few leaves shimmering in the sunlight and their tracework of branches coated in a glimmering slickness. The pleached, trained lines of the fruit bushes of summer had already been taken down, those shrubs pruned back to their hardy, ball-shaped winter forms, forced by dint of secateurs and weather to conserve their energy reserves for the coming spring. Alses had, admittedly, helped things along a bit there, sending bursts of true-blue light dancing and flickering amongst them for the past few days or so, bringing them closer to full winter hibernation in time for this first, hard frost. She shivered – her muscles were beginning to cool and seize, even with the constant heat of Syna at her back. Best to keep working. Alses let her mind freewheel as she worked, moving methodically up and down the rectangles of exposed soil, stepping with a natural grace that a society lady would have killed for over the raised borders and pathways, not really thinking about it as her gardening fork stabbed and turned, riffled and ravelled the rich chunks of soil through the steel spires, breaking up the hard ground and subsuming the wintry glitter. It was past noon when she was finally done with the annual vegetable and herb beds, her face glowing like rubies or hot coals, almost matching the glorious shade of her hair – which now hung in slick, wet rattails about her face, drenched from her exertions. It was hard work – she sent a brief paean of thanks skywards, in recognition of the superiority of her celestial form – but nonetheless quite fun. On her mental list of Things to Do in the Garden, she happily crossed out the first task, and turned to the next one. A The Towers Respite's gardening pavilion was an oasis of calm and warmth. A humble domed structure, tucked away off the beaten path and surrounded by towering evergreens, it was perfect for its purpose. Its position also meant that the gardener could see almost everyone entering the gardens, either straight from the street or from the Respite itself. Inside its glittering shell, the pavilion showed the evidence of two seasons of hard work – there wasn't a speck of dust to be seen, since Alses had turfed everything out early on in her career as Respite gardener and given the whole place a dousing in soapy water and then followed that up with a vigorous scrubbing. Normally, she was somewhat averse to cleaning – a little clutter was healthy in any case, surely, and besides, it was an endless, thankless job to keep everything absolutely sparkling all of the time. Even so, she could recognize when 'a little untidy' became 'filthy' or 'downright dangerous' – hence the cleaning. The wooden racks which held the tools were now neatly labelled – 'Rake', for example, for the thing Alses had considered for the better part of four months to be a horticultural billhook (and indeed still often used it as such) 'Fork' for, well, the fork, her current favourite implement, and the 'Lawn Cutter', a crescent of sharp metal at the end of a long pole she'd first used to chop away at roots and errant branches, to name but a few. The only reason that cutter had worked at all at the purpose she'd initially set it to was because of her greater-than-mortal strength, but it had blunted very quickly. 'I suppose I'll have to do something about that sooner or later,' Alses thought with a sigh. After learning what it was actually for, the cutter had mostly been left to gather what dust it could in the pavilion rack, since the Respite's gardens didn't have large, ornamental expanses of grass. Shelves ranged along the walls held sturdy wooden boxes, filled with alternating layers of bulbs and burlap, pulled from the ground in late Autumn under the watchful eye of Martin. There were gladioli, which produced striking spears of flowers in summer, irises, for their vibrant colours, lilies for their glorious scents and much else besides, all of them carefully stored against winter's assault and protected from sunlight by the burlap layers. Martin had mentioned she'd need to restock her supply of small plant pots, but that could be left for a while – she wouldn't be doing any potting-up until late winter at the earliest anyway, and Alses rather liked having a clear workbench. It somehow suggested order, completion, efficiency. The wall in front of it was plastered with bits of paper – the recipe for the weedkiller in prominent position, along with a description of what it did, some observations on the idiosyncrasies of some of the plants and other such sundry comments. There was also, in a carefully-covered pot right at the back, a foul-smelling and sticky substance that served Lhavit as a glue. She knew the procedure for making it, although this batch wasn't her own. It was fairly simple boiling reduction process that almost anyone could do with a pan and a fire, using various – well, it was best to think of it as 'ingredients' – from the Okomo, coupled with some common herbal extracts to act as thickening and binding agents. Under a reducing heat, the disparate elements reacted together, drove off some of the water and formed a thick, sticky paste that dried quickly in small amounts, binding fast to whatever it was stuck to. A slight alteration of the formula – increasing the proportion of taka moss extract and nokkochi sap in the mix – resulted in a much stickier, more resistant glue, useless for notice paste and other temporary applications, but just the ticket for glue bands. These were, in essence, nothing more than rags liberally coated with the stuff and slapped around the boles of trees in late Autumn and Winter, to protect them from the few hardy winter pests and, when Spring rolled around again, the ants and other swarming pests out to get the fresh, vulnerable new buds and leaves. Oh, the glue wasn't perfect, by any means – and she'd have to tramp out there with glue-pot in hand to reapply it a few times – but it was better than nothing for the trees. As a gardener, they were her responsibility, so some sacrifices (comfort and warmth in the impending winter came to mind) had to be made.

[Alses]

Alses straightened up with a huff of hot dragonsbreath from her crouching position, having just tied the last of the sticky, stinking glue-soaked rags around the base of a cherry tree – the last in the row, and indeed the last tree in the entire miniature orchard of the Respite's kitchen gardens. Gagging from the stench of the drying glue, she staggered backwards out of immediate range with no small amount of relief, thankful that, as the glue settled, it lost that pungent, repulsive odour almost entirely. Perhaps, one day when she had time, a little research into the active components of the glue would be in order, so as to perhaps eliminate the smell entirely. Entire legions of drudges would doubtless thank her, if she managed it. Still, that was something to consider in the future, not now. No, now was devoted to magical research, and to the security of her own finances – one had to have a stable footing, a foundation in rock, to switch metaphors, before one could begin to build castles in the air. Her eyes turned, almost automatically, out beyond Lhavit's safe and tamed peaks to the others which clustered close about, empty and inviting. Prime building land, just waiting for a skyglass bridge to extend from the city and claim it. She shook her head – that was in the future. Almost everything was, when one took the long view from her perspective. Fork slung over her shoulder, the weight of it resting on her shoulder (used to the pressure thanks to months of carting message boxes around) she processed out of the the walled kitchen gardens and out into the rather more relaxed, informal atmosphere of the main grounds. They were intended for enjoyment and relaxation rather than utility, and thus the paths wound their way about in gentle, serpentine curves, rather than stretching out in regimented array, and the garden plants had been chosen more for their decorative qualities than their utility. A case in point was the small population of dwarf primroses that the gardens cautiously sported – after Alses' initial rampage against them, only a few isolated clumps had remained, and in order to keep them from spreading rampant across the flowerbeds once more, she'd isolated them in pots. The flowers were pretty enough, and indeed, in certain circumstances their creeping habit was a boon, and not a bane, but she still preferred to keep them safely away from the earth and vigorously pruned, just in case they decided to pull a trick like that again. In a way, it was quite sad to be walking through a garden on the cusp of winter; the riot of verdant green and the bursting rainbow of colour that so characterised Summer – and to a lesser extent Spring – that was then followed by the kaleidoscope of shade and hue that made up the turning leaves of Autumn was all gone, faded like a memory. The Respite gardens were now a near-uniform shade of brown under the frosty glitter, with only the occasional flare of green under the wintry mantle – coniferous trees clinging gamely to the sides of the mountain and a scattering of possibly the oddest plant in Lhavit, the ipdo, providing most of the relief from monotony. All the various scents of the garden were gone, too, the competing and complementing flower perfumes and the rich smell of growing earth, of life after the rain, all of that swept away on a wintry wind. The pavilion at least was an oasis of warmth, a bastion of heat in the chill of the day. Alses, a creature of heat and light, didn't react well to the cold, and had taken to spending longer and longer in the Respite's hot baths, letting the (admittedly slightly sulphurous) water thaw her out, liberating her body from the cold which always seemed to settle in her bones by about midday. Her own fire in the Respite, always kept burning in her grate, was probably accounting for a goodly amount of the depletion of the communal woodpile, but she cared not a jot. Syna's power was waning, and with it, so was she. Her days were reduced to about eight hours in length, courtesy of Lhavit's position in Mizahar, and in spite of the increased time she spent dead to the world, sprawled out on her bed in her mortal seeming, she was still always tired. Irritability, even in her perfect form, rose to the surface more and more readily, too, probably a reaction to the natural cycle of the seasons. Alses didn't have to like the changes, after all. Whistling tunelessly through her teeth, she pottered about the pavilion, alone and perfectly content to be so, doing a few of the little, niggling tasks which took but a moment to complete, really, but built up all unheeded by dint of not being important or necessary. Putting a wedge under the forward left leg of the workbench to make the whole thing level and completely stable again, that was a good example – it took her about five ticks to find an appropriate chunk of wood, a further two to wedge it another one to wobble the table to check its stability. Eight ticks, in total, to fix something that had been bothering her in a low-grade sort of way for the better part of two months. Shaking her head at her own folly, she ran her fingers over the orderly shelves. “Twine, cane bundles, scissors, bonemeal, creosote-” She paused at that, mouth twitching in a wry smile. She was privately very glad not to have had to collect that stuff: that odious task had fallen to a hapless student who'd attracted Tahala's ire in some way (or perhaps had just had the misfortune to be the closest when she was looking for someone to do it) and had spent two weeks scraping around in the chimney flues for the sticky stuff and being completely, thoroughly miserable. The unfortunate girl had been black for days, despite soaking for bells on end in the hottest baths available and scrubbing her skin raw with a collection of soaps and oils – some of which Alses had felt motivated to provide. The abject misery pouring off the girl had quite poisoned her own relaxation attempts, after all, her aura grating on every sense that Alses possessed, leaving a bitter, tight taste in her mouth, an irritating little tickle right at the back of her nose, a foul constricting itchiness on her skin and a nausea-inducing whorl of clashing colours – puce and lime green especially, for some unfathomable reason – to her sight. “-fertilising philtres, a bag of powdered Syna-knows-what-” she had left that well alone, having been completely unable to identify it. Martin had promised to take a sample to his superior at the Dusk Tower, but hadn't rematerialized back at the Respite yet to actually collect any. “-and aha! Linseed oil,” she finished triumphantly, brandishing the little metal pot to all and sundry with a satisfied grin. A very, very simple preparation – even given her own limited knowledge of philtering, Alses could have produced batches of it with ease – linseed oil was simply collected from crushing flax seeds and then reducing the gooey mash thus produced to a fine oil with a few common solvents, before straining it through fine muslin gauze to get rid of any bits of seed left over. Martin had said that linseed oil was the best measure of protection for the wooden bits of her common tools, that it would help protect them from some of the elements and against hard knocks. He'd said that with a knowing grin on his face, having been present at several of her more spectacular falls and so getting a rather skewed outlook on the fabled Ethaefal grace. Taking the lawn cutter down from the rack, on the basis that it was the least-used of her current set of tools and therefore not likely to be required before she shut the garden down almost completely for winter, she dipped a rag (of which the Respite appeared to have an almost limitless supply) into the pot of oil and began to smear the yellow liquid gently and evenly – her few forays into Respite cleaning duties had taught her that much about applying polishes – into the handle, massaging the oil, almost, into the grain of the wood. In a way, it was make-work, passing the time for a bell or so. It needed to be done, certainly, but it was hardly a pressing concern. In truth, Alses was waiting for the sunset to draw a little nearer before attempting her final job of the day – clearing the Respite pond of all the accumulated muck and leaves which had drifted innocently into it over the course of Autumn. The optimist in her hoped to be able to complete the entire operation at arm's length, using her strength and the powers of the rake to dredge up the gunk and dispose of it, either over the edge of the city or onto the compost heap, depending on which was closer. The pessimist, however, maintained she'd have to either go splashing about in it or she'd fall in – and, that being the case, it'd be better to wait until at least near the time when gills sprouted on her neck again. For once, she'd taken her own advice and so was peacefully engaged in polishing the tools of her – well, to call it a job would be demeaning professional gardeners everywhere – hobby, whilst the light outside slipped steadily closer to sunset.

[Alses]

When Alses judged it time, or near enough, to make her way out of the cosy warmth of the pavilion and towards the Respite's pool, she found that the water was almost black, much to her dismay. She'd given in to temptation several times in the balmy summer months, splashing around in its crystal-clear waters to delight in the sensation of cold droplets on her sun-warmed skin. Ethaefal or no, there were some things she'd inherited straight from her last mortal form, and one of them was a love of swimming, and of the water in general. That, she claimed defensively to anyone who questioned it, was why she spent so long in the baths each day. Now though, gazing apprehensively into the dark and mysterious depths of the pond, she really didn't want to end up in it, either by accident or design. She sniffed the air, cautiously – it didn't smell bad, at least, which hopefully meant that Martin's prophecy of rotting leaves wasn't going to be a problem. Frosted grass crunched under her feet as she paced around the substantial circumference of the pool, gazing moodily, contemplatively, into its black depths. This wouldn't have been necessary at all if Tahala had only approved her request for metal stakes and netting, but she hadn't (despite several bouts of undignified wheedling) and so there was no use bemoaning her current fate – it wouldn't magically get the job done or make her feel any better. Absently, Alses tossed a pebble into the pond. This was not out of any need to actually test its depth - done by watching the progress of the static rock aura through the more mobile, chaotic water - since she'd swum in it a few times in the summer, but rather just to hear the sound and watch the splash. In other words, because she could. Shaking herself out of her reverie, she marched to the most convenient spot that she'd identified, close to the balconies which stopped errant or absent-minded students simply wandering off the edge of the peak, and settled in to wait. Fortunately, this wasn't a chore in any way; Lhavit at sunset was always spectacular, the red and gold rays of the dying sun setting the cloud-tops all aglow with shifting fire until the whole city seemed to float above a sea of gentle flame. As the last, dying ray of light flashed across the skyglass splendour of the city, the Change came upon her, stripping away the glory of her daytime form in a tide of golden lights, draining the colour and shine from her skin, making her glorious crown-of-horns vanish off into the aether, stripping the crimson out of her hair and generally bleeding her naked skin – this was a potentially messy job, after all, and there was no sense in making her clothes filthy - of any vibrancy and life. Konti. Ugh. White skin, only barely-pink gills, hair of a blonde so pale it was almost white, subtly iridescent scales, bluish lips...and to think that some people thought Konti were beautiful. Alses shuddered – yes, all right, there had to be someone for everyone, but that was just strange. She hefted the rake and plunged it into the mysterious waters, watching the spokes vanish into the darkness. Perhaps it would have been a good idea to get some lights, too; her night vision was poor, to say the least. Too late now, though. “Heigh ho,” Alses muttered to herself, as resistance on the part of the rake indicated it had hit the bottom – or at least a large rock. Most of the tool's length was submerged in the murky pool, and Alses' arms were at full stretch to get it anywhere near the centre – the pond was deceptively large, and deceptively deep, too, come to that. Alses' muscles tensed and corded as she hauled back on the handle, dragging the metal spokes through the accumulated muck on the bottom of the pond. It was heavy going; the rake caught on numerous things as she fought to drag it out. Alses dug her heels into the bank and hauled, putting every ounce of strength remaining to her behind it – the rake sailed the rest of the way out with an easy grace, almost, breaching the waters with a splash and a smell that was unimaginably, nose-cakingly bad, rising to the surface in noxious bubbles and wafting off the mess of mud and half-rotted leaves that was tangled in the metal fan of the rake. Necessity, as they say, is the mother of invention; Alses took that to heart and, whilst managing to keep the disgusting mess as far away from herself as possible, rescued a long branch that had evidently been torn free from its arboreal moorings by one of the autumnal gales and used that to dislodge the ball of muck from a safe distance. It fell, and fell, and fell, tumbling down the mountainside until it vanished without a sound into the soft sea of cloud which surrounded Lhavit. Out of sight, out of mind – and a nasty surprise indeed if it happened to fall on anyone. The chances of that though, given the unforgiving terrain that surrounded Lhavit on all sides, were minimal at best. Ruefully, she contemplated the water-stained rake, knowing that she had a long way to go before the bottom of the pond was anywhere near clear. With a sigh, Alses cast the rake out once more, nostrils thinned against the pervasive stench. A few more bubbles of whatever that decidedly-toxic gas was bubbled up in protest at the second invasion. With a long-suffering expression on her face, Alses toiled away, as the last of the twilight gave way to true night, making her way methodically around the circumference of the pond, wishing desperately for a clothespeg or something of that nature even as she hauled mounds of stinking, rotting leaves and mud from the bottom and pitched them gleefully over the skyglass railings and out into empty space. A The sleepy clerk who was valiantly half-sleeping at the Towers Respite reception desk that night started upright with a jolt as the doors slammed back on their hinges, letting in a heavy, fetid, earthy smell and a toweringly furious – and still radiantly naked – Alses. She'd evidently taken an inadvertent dip in the pool, water gleaming darkly on her skin and a few trails of greenish algae clinging stickily to her hair. Her mouth was pressed into a tight, white line, standing out even against the paleness of her skin, a sure sign of annoyance, and her eyes were fixed resolutely forward, burning with a considerable degree of fury at Mizahar in general. The clerk, after a few seconds of gaping, recovered his wits sufficiently to open his mouth, to voice an objection to her nude state, perhaps, but didn't manage to get very far – a few quick, tightly controlled strides brought Alses almost nose-to-nose with the unfortunate man, the bulk of the reception desk between them suddenly seeming like a very flimsy barrier indeed. “Breathe a word of this to anyone, anyone at all, and I'll boil your brains out,” she barked, putting as much force and venom as she could muster (a very great deal, as it happened) into the short sentence. She hadn't the foggiest idea how to go about boiling someone's brains from the inside out, admittedly, but by Syna's infinite radiance, if necessary she'd find out. The clerk had frozen, pen slipped from nerveless fingers and papers completely forgotten-about. “Do I make myself clear?” Alses all-but snarled. The water was starting to dry on her, and she was beginning to feel disgustingly sticky. Syna alone knew what had bred in that pond whilst she'd blithely ignored it in favour of pottering about the flower beds with her secateurs, pruning and cutting and tidying up. This close, the reek of rotting vegetation was almost overpowering; through the fug, the clerk nonetheless managed a frightened nod. “[shadow2=yellow,0,0,3]Good,[/shadpw2]” Alses growled, making a beeline for the Respite baths. The hapless receptionist opened his mouth to frame some objection to her nudity once more, but distance and a prudent sense of self-preservation stopped him. Hot water, that was the trick of it. Lots and lots and lots of hot water, a couple of bars of soap, some scrubbing cloths, a scraper and as many oils as she could find on short notice. At this late bell, the baths were deserted, a fact that Alses was very thankful for as she hurried across the slick tiles towards the private section, hidden from the public pool by elaborately-carved lacquer screens, depicting peacocks, Okomo and many other fantastical beasts to delight the eye whilst one lay soaking. Right now though, Alses had little regard for the painted and carved figures, rummaging through the baskets of bath oils, soaps, unguents, embrocations and balsams that the Respite very kindly provided its students, all-but scrabbling for the strongest ones she could find. Near-scalding water, thickly covered in a layer of lather and a shimmering, rainbowed film of attar of roses, lapped at the oval of her face, the only bit of her body breaching the surface. Her most fervent hope, as she floated there, gills flared wide to purge them of any dirty water that might have instinctively been inspired, was that this many-fragranced bath would give her a rather nicer cloud of scent than the one she'd arrived with. Even the slightly sulphurous smell of the bathwater would be preferable. Waves lapped gently against the side as Alses turned over to lie face-down – she wasn't taking any chances. END

[Elysium]

Character: Alses
XP:
Gardening +4
Observation +2

Lores:
How to Break Up Earth
How to Collect Linseed Oil
How to Dredge Up Rotted Leaves
How to Maintain a Garden
Lore of a Scythe and It's Uses

Other: This was remarkably detailed. Very nice work!


and so, the journey continues...